


The Call of the Running Tide

by Acephalous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acephalous/pseuds/Acephalous
Summary: “Stay,” James says softly, “Fretting or not you’re welcome here. I’m not suffering your presence for politeness' sake. You may always assume I am happy to have you near.”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 26
Kudos: 170





	The Call of the Running Tide

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought I was only interested in participating in fandom by reading fic, not writing it. But then The Terror happened, and I guess I write fic now? Please figure any/all historical inaccuracies.

At the top of the stairs Francis pauses, sways for a moment, tries to force his exhaustion away by force of will alone. He gathers himself, and strides down the corridor of Fort Resolution’s lodging house. Goes to a half open door at the end of the passageway. Inside the room he hears Le Vesconte speaking softly. He knocks on the door-frame and steps inside.

Le Vesconte looks up from the stool beside James’ sickbed. There’s barely room for the seat in the small room, and it’s wedged awkwardly between the wall and the narrow cot where James lies. Instinctively Francis catalogues James, searching for any change in his health, desperate for indications of recovery, terrified to see signs that he is worsening again. But, all he sees is continued improvement: there is more colour in James’ face, and his eyes are alert. That alone gives Francis a great deal of comfort. For so long James’ was drifting, half conscious at best, not seeming to know where he was or who was at his side, confused and barely able to speak. It has been a relief, these last few days that he recognizes Francis. Recognizes him, and smiles at the sight of him, revealing a missing tooth. 

“You asked for me James?” Francis asks, pitching his voice low.

James struggles to sit up, though it’s a losing endeavour. Le Vesconte rises from the stool. Francis hurries the rest of the way into the room. The small room should make the presence of two men at James’ bedside cramped and awkward, but Le Vesconte and Francis have been spelling one another off here for long enough that they’ve perfected the trade off. As Le Vesconte slides to the door with his back to the wall Francis edges in front of him and drops to the stool at the head of the bed. 

“I’ll leave you in the Captain’s capable hands, Jas” Le Vesconte says to James, gives Francis a nod, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

James is still trying to sit up. Francis presses his shoulder, gently.

“Lie quiet, it’s alright.” Francis soothes, words well-worn with use from the days of James’ delirium. 

When James settles back into the bed, Francis removes his hand from his shoulder, lays it on the coverlet of the cot instead. James is still smiling at him. 

“Francis” James murmurs, “how are you?”

The sound of his voice, cracked and strained though it is, makes Francis smile back at him, “I’m well. Bridgens said you asked for me?”

James blinks for a moment, brow furrowed. He shakes his head against the pillow. “I didn’t. I haven’t seen him, not since this morning”

Francis turns over the events of the day in his mind. Staring, unsleeping, at the white-washed ceiling of his room during the few hours of the night he could force himself to lay still. Rising from his bed too early. Following the same routine he has every day since they arrived at Fort Resolution: stalking from place to place, checking and re-checking on his men. It has gotten harder to do as the days progress, as more and more men recover, and fewer of them are confined to sickbeds. He knows it should make him glad, it does make him glad, to see them up and about. But it also makes it harder to know where all the men are at any given moment, and he can’t seem to stop circling the Fort, going from man to man, like a damned sheep dog trying to round up his flock. He can’t shake the feeling of impending doom, that anyone who is out of his sight is in danger. That if he closes his eyes to sleep, or is anything less than completely vigilant, this safe haven will prove to be some cruel illusion, and will dissolve around them into danger and death. He knows he is a source of irritation like this, as the men around him regain their health and good spirits. He can see the wariness in their eyes when they see him, feel the tension when he enters a room. Even Jopson, sitting up in his sick bed this morning, had suggested, delicately that Francis might perhaps be better off resting. He’d dragged himself away, the need to do something burning under his skin, but knowing there was nothing needing his attention. He’d managed to start a blazing row with Blanky, who had asked how long he planned to haunt them all like a damn sullen ghost. They were interrupted, before Francis could say anything he would regret, when Bridgens had appeared at his side, and told him Captain Fitzjames had asked for him. 

It had taken the fight out of Francis completely, and Blanky’s eyes had softened, “Go on then, Frank” he had said, gesturing to the building where James was making his slow, halting recovery. 

Now, as he worries the coverlet on James’ bed with his fingers, Francis laughs bitterly, “I was sent here so they could get some peace. Good Christ, I must be driving the men mad. They need to rest, but I can’t seem to stop fretting at them.” 

“They wish you would rest,” James says, very gently, “they worry for you too. Dundy says you do not sleep but wander the place like a ghost.” He pauses, then adds, quietly enough that Francis has to lean forward to hear “We are all safe Francis. You led us out.” 

Francis realizes he has gripped the edge of the coverlet into his clenched fist. Takes a breath, forces himself to let it go, lays his hand flat. “I can’t help but think it won’t last. If I stop to rest, I feel as though we are lost again. Or I think of the ice, and all my mistakes. Worse yet, I start to think of returning to England.”

“What’s to dread about England? A knighthood? A return to friends? Recognition for all you’ve done?” James asks in confusion.

Francis shakes himself, forces a smile, though he fears it is more of a grimace, “Yes, of course, for you my friend, there will be all of that.” 

“Francis…”

Francis sees the worry he’s managed to put on James face, sees how tired he looks. “And here I am again, weighing you down with my foolishness, when you should be focused on your own recovery. You see why I am driving the men to distraction. I’ll leave you to rest,. I’m sorry I’m not better company.”

James lifts a hand, taps a finger against the back of Francis’ hand, where it lies on the coverlet. Francis stills, in the act of shifting himself to stand. 

“Stay,” James says softly, “Fretting or not you’re welcome here. I’m not suffering your presence for politeness' sake. You may always assume I am happy to have you near.” 

Francis looks, at him, for a long moment. Sees no sign of insincerity. “Alright,” then very softly, “alright.” 

He relaxes onto the stool. Starts to speak again, staring into space, spooling out his fears about the return to England, about all that will need to be done when they return. Pensions for the men too injured to work again, money for the families of those who were lost. As he starts to list the likely difficulties associated with formalizing Jopson’s irregular promotion he looks down at James, and realizes he is asleep. Francis falls silent, watches him breath, easily, without struggle or pain. For the moment the urge to move again, chase his worries from point to point, subsides. He settles into his seat, watches over his friend. 

***  
James watches Francis’ face as the ship bearing them home approaches the London docks. Francis’ face is set and still. There is a large crowd gathered at the dock, and James’ dearly hopes it is not for them. He’s positioned himself in his customary place standing, at Francis’ side but a half step back. He is exhausted already. Standing for any length of time still taxes him, and he is glad that standing just behind Francis means he doesn’t have to work to hide his weakness from Francis’ eyes. He feels entirely apart from all the simmering excitement of the men around him, the rise and fall of their happy voices. 

“Well,” Francis says, voice rough, “England at last.”

James makes an affirmative noise, then turns his eye to the shore. He is glad that the voyage back has seemed to settle Francis, let him finally believe he has brought his men home. For James this final stage of their journey back has not given him any ease: the closer the ship draws to England, the more his turmoil grows. 

He finds he cannot quite conceive of the idea of return, even now, on the brink of setting foot onto English soil once more. He knows the others have made plans for their return. Had listened to Francis speak of a plan to stay with Sir James Ross, details of a plan that James could not quite bear to listen to. The other men too, had described returns to their loved ones, to friends and family. James is not sure where he will go: has only vague thoughts of taking a room at his club until he finds his feet. The very thought of further planning exhausts him. 

He has friends in London, of course he does, but he shies away from the thought. He cannot quite work out who he will be to them, is not sure they will enjoy his company now. He feels too changed to slot back into his old self easily. He remembers being full of laughter and merriment, and he’s not sure if there is any of that left in him. And for so long his world has been so constrained: the ice, the cold, pull the sleds, stay steady for Francis, do his duty. And now, like a lead opening in the ice: an enormity of possibilities. He has returned, but to what?

But perhaps, he thinks, his worries tend in the wrong direction. Perhaps instead, he will slide back to his old persona, easy as drowning in cold water. Safely hidden, unknown to the world, and half hollow. It is hard, he finds, to bear the thought now: too used to being seen and known. But, of course, that was always going to be a fleeting state: he cannot follow Francis like a shadow forever. He has returned from sea many times, he knows that voyages end, ship-mates part. They will likely meet again as chance offers, and be glad for it.

At least do this gracefully you damn fool he tells himself, viciously. Don’t cling. It will be worse if Francis has to tell him that he is not welcome. 

There is a sudden wave of noise, and he realizes with a shock that the ship has docked while he was lost in his thoughts, causing the gathered crowd to set up a cheer. He knows, the thought curdling in him, that there would have been a time when this would have filled him with joy. Now all he can seem to find in himself is the feel of aching joints, and shame at how few men are making this return. He realizes he has been probing at a gap where a tooth used to be with his tongue, makes himself stop. 

Francis turns over his shoulder, grins at him, tilts his head towards the waiting crowd “God help us.” he laughs, then turns back and leads the men down off the ship. 

James’ follows him onto shore, ears ringing with the noise of all the gathered throng. He realizes he has taken several steps on English soil again, without marking it. He sees the men of the voyage disburse through the crowd, sees joyful reunions. James grinds to a halt, feeling suddenly bereft. He finds he has no idea where his next step should take him. He watches Francis striding purposefully forward and away, into the crowd. Watches him clasp arms with a waiting Sir James Ross. Ross takes Francis by the shoulders, pure joy in his face. It warms James, to know that for all Francis’ worries about a return to England. he has this moment of homecoming. It is only his own selfishness that makes him want Francis back with him. 

James knows he should find a cab. Find his way to his club, or a hotel, find a place to stay. He should…but it all seems desperately complicated and hard, and the dock is so very crowded. Instead he watches Ross say something to Francis, something that makes Francis throw his head back and laugh. 

He is still staring when Francis turns his head, starting to make some comment over his shoulder. Sees him pause, when there is no one at his side. Francis spins on his heel, searching. His eyes light on James, and Francis is moving back to him, swiftly through the crowd, worry clear on his face. He’s at James side in a moment, wraps a hand under James elbow, as though he fears James is about to waver, or fall. 

“Are you alright, James?” His voice is all concern. 

James means to say he’s fine. Finds himself leaning on Francis’ arm instead. Sees the worry on Francis’ face increase. Francis turns to say something to Ross, who has materialized out of the crowd, but there is a ringing in James’ ears now, and he can’t make out the words.

Almost before he realizes it, James finds himself whisked into a waiting carriage. He leans his head back against the seat, closes his eyes, lets the exhaustion take him for a moment. Opens his eyes again after a moment. Ross is seated across from him, Francis beside him, hand still on his elbow. 

Ross smiles at James. “It’s not long to my home, and you can get abed, I know you’re still recovering.” 

James blinks at him. Realizes there is an invitation somewhere in that statement, manages to say, “I wouldn’t want impose.”

“It’s not an imposition,” Ross scoffs, “Lord knows Francis has put me up after a long voyage, in times past. Francis’ letter mentioned you hadn’t any plans for where to stay. We have plenty of room.”

Internally James recoils, tries to find a way to say how unfit for company he feels. He isn’t sure who he is, and he finds he hates the thought of being seen, when he isn’t quite sure how to mask himself. 

Francis senses his distress, squeezes the hand at James’ elbow gently. Says, low: “If there’s somewhere else you’d rather we stay, just say the word. A hotel perhaps?” 

The realization that his refusal will also apparently deprive Francis of his time with Ross kills the remainder of James’ protests. “No of course, not.” Looks back at Ross, “It’s very kind.”

***

James enters the Rosses’ library, it’s late, and most of the house is abed. But there’s still a fire in the grate, and sitting at the desk in the corner is Francis, leaning over some writing. He smiles at James, who finds a seat in the armchair closest to the fire. In the weeks they’ve stayed with the Rosses this has become a routine of sorts for them. Francis struggles to sleep, and James finds himself entirely uneasy around other people, haunting the house at odd hours to avoid them. He feels an ungrateful guest, and perpetually off-balance, though he can detect no reproach from the Rosses. 

Francis bends back over his paperwork, careful lines of text and figures. He has changed from his dress uniform, that he had worn in the afternoon to his court-martial. 

James lifts his book from the side table beside him, finds his place, stares at the page. Francis’ pen scratches at the paper. After several minutes of re-reading the same sentence over and over, James sighs, puts the book down again. 

“It went well?” James says, staring into the fire, feeling like he’s probing the edge of a loose tooth, painful but impossible to ignore. 

Francis had requested no one accompany him to the Admiralty for his court martial that afternoon. He had been tense, but with none of the pessimistic dread that James had expected, instead displaying an equanimity that was so unexpected it made greater added to James’ unease. 

James had worn a path in the carpet of the Rosses’ sitting room from pacing. Ross, clearly on edge himself, had tried to offer a word of comfort, and James had turned on him with a snarl, then sunk into a chair, and stammered an apology, which Ross had accepted awkwardly. They had sat in choking silence after that, until Francis returned, epaulettes glinting on his shoulders, hat under one arm, looked them over, said: 

“It was acquittal, all’s well lads.” Then vanished upstairs, having the gall to whistle as he went. 

James and Ross had exchanged one speaking glance, that mixed fondness and annoyance in equal measures. It was the first time James had felt any real connection with Ross. He knows he is borne as a guest for Francis’ sake, but equally has been utterly incapable of making himself likeable. 

Endearing himself to others is the sort of thing that used to come as easily as breathing to him, but he can’t find the way of it anymore. He feels like he cannot reassemble the old version of himself, and even his most feeble attempts to do so make him feel like he is in danger of flying apart. He feels like his is going mad here, and worse, he knows Francis sees it. He does not want to trouble Francis, nor does he want to hear Francis offer the obvious solution: having James’ find somewhere else to stay.

Now James watches the flames lick at the logs, tries to relax the muscles in his jaw, waits for Francis to answer him.

“It was straightforward enough.” Francis replies, “Unpleasant though, as you know.”

James does know. His own court-martial had been that morning. From almost the moment it began however, it had felt like a formality. The questions lacked sharpness, the tone of the panel ranged from conciliatory to almost acclamatory. His old instinct for advancement and politicking that reared its head, he could feel that he was being led to something. What that something was he couldn’t fathom, not at first. So he had chosen his words carefully, and listened to the way each member of the panel had spoken. Gradually, as the questions turned to other members of the expedition, he began to realize what direction he was being herded. 

He listened as they opened space for him to enlarge his own role, and importance, in events both on ship, and during their long march after. They nudged him to paint himself as the saviour of the expedition and diminish Francis’ role entirely. To lay blame, for the abandonment of the ships, for the loss of men at Francis’ door. James had looked at the line of smug, smiling fools, as they invited him to join them in their folly. Of course, he could see what they were offering: hero of the expedition, to be feted, and advanced, and given the pick of positions in future. 

He had clenched his fists so hard he lost all feeling in his fingers, kept his face as neutral as he could, and told them the truth. Lauded Francis’ bravery, leadership and calm in crisis. Cleaves to Francis, who led them out, who brought them through. Refuses to let the Admiralty find a gap between them to pull Francis apart with. Tells of his own role, a dutiful second, supporting as best he could, and proud to do so. He had been acquitted and stormed from the building, full of a towering rage he hadn’t known he had left in him. 

James had resolved not to mention all this to Francis, not wanting to risk unbalancing him before he had to stand before the same panel. Francis who is not politic, who has a temper, who is incapable of suffering fools gladly. It would better if he not know that the Admiralty had been planning to ruin him, career and reputation both. Besides, James had told himself, he had shielded him from the danger. They wouldn’t be able to wreck Francis now that James had refused to play their game. 

James had meant to keep all this from Francis, but now, with the danger passed, he finds himself utterly incapable of it, hears himself say, “They were looking to place the blame on you.”

Francis laughs, a sound that startles James’ into looking at him. There’s no bitterness in it, instead he laughs as though James has told a wonderful joke. “Of course they were. They wanted someone to blame for the deaths of 93 good Englishmen.” Francis narrows his eyes at James, looks at him searchingly. “Were you expecting better from them? Follow my lead, expect the worst from the Admiralty. You’ll seldom find yourself disappointed.” 

James glares at Francis, “They wanted to wreck your career, ruin you, don’t you understand that? After everything. After everything you did. They decided it before you’d even had a chance to say a word in your defence. How can you be so cavalier?”

Francis’ brow is furrowed, “I knew that, of course I did. Ross made sure I was aware of what I faced.” 

“But you were unconcerned before it. I saw you.”

Francis is smiling again, “They would have needed to your testimony against me first, and there was no danger of that. I was as safe as I could be.”

James opens his mouth to protest. They had offered him everything he used to want: Francis should have been terrified that James would betray him. Then closes it again, under Francis’ knowing gaze. Because the thought of breaking Francis’ trust had not even crossed his mind, and he cannot imagine anything the Admiralty could have offered that would have changed that.

Francis fiddles with the paper in front of him. “I wanted to ask you about something. It could wait until tomorrow, but since you’re here now…”

When James nods Francis rises and brings him the papers he has been working at. 

“I’m looking for houses to let. I’ve narrowed down the options, but obviously I need your opinion.” 

James feels suddenly cold, Francis is moving on. They’ve been guests of the Rosses’ for too long already. James, of course, will leave the Rosses’ when Francis goes, and he shall go… somewhere. Where will he go? He realizes he’s being selfish again. Makes himself extend his hand, takes the pages from Francis.

He glances over it, sees Francis neat writing listing out each location, with a description, the cost, the benefits each offers, the drawbacks. It’s all done with a level of detail that is better suited to the manifest of a vessel bound for a multi-year voyage than a change of lodgings. James’ can’t help but feel something about it speaks of nervousness on Francis’ part, though he cannot imagine why. Looks at the list with more attention, frowning at some of the items on the list. Each prospective location is two bedrooms. Francis has included some baffling notations as well, the long distance to the London residence of James’ brother has been listed as a negative feature of one. For another house, ‘no stairs’ has been listed as a benefit, and underlined twice, though Francis (unlike James) does not have joints that pain him, and has no trouble taking stairs even when the weather grows cold. 

James looks up at Francis, who is hovering beside his chair, “I didn’t realize you were looking to leave.”

Francis shrugs, “You’re not happy here.”

James looks away, feeling suddenly ashamed, “The Rosses have been the very picture of kindness.”

“They have, but you’re not ease,” Francis responds, “I thought it would be better if we had some space to ourselves.” 

James repeats blankly “…to ourselves”

Francis takes a step away from the chair, abruptly, voice gone tight, “It was only a thought. But you’ll likely prefer to find somewhere for yourself, get some peace and quiet.”

James let’s out a bark of laughter. “I most certainly do not want peace and quiet. What an idea.” He tilts his head back to look at Francis. Francis’ bearing has gone naval stiff, hands behind his back. James softens his voice. “A place for ourselves is very tempting. But I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your friends, just because I have become a misanthrope.” 

Francis posture relaxes minutely. “You’re not happy here.” he repeats, like that’s all that matters. “We’ll still be in London. I can see the Rosses as much as I please.” 

“Well in that case, I suppose I must agree” James says, returning his attention to Francis’ neat list.

***

The move to a home with just the two of them is good for James, he feels himself settle back into his skin a bit more each day. It does wonders for Francis as well, insomnia loosening it’s grip slightly, letting him sleep some nights. They are both grateful for the privacy, because they are swamped with invitation after invitation, to dinners and parties, and concerts. Their initial refusals only serve to make them more desirable guests, and not every invitation can be ignored. Francis is sour at the prospect of each event, at first refusing to go to as many as he reasonably could. But he gradually subsides when it becomes clear that, with a safe home to retreat to and his health much improved, James enjoys being out in society again. And where James goes, it seems, so goes Francis.

At the first party they attend James could hardly enjoy himself, due to the looming dread of the inevitable moment when someone would ask for a story of the North. When the request comes he feels a wide chasm of panic open in him, searches for and fails to find any words at all. Francis, face gone miserable, interrupts gracelessly, and begins a story, a limping ungainly tale about searching for leads through the ice, that James’ can tell clearly pains Francis to tell and gives no joy to the audience. When he is done James can see that Francis’ clenched fist is shaking slightly. 

The next time someone asks for a tale, a week later at a dinner party, James see the same miserable look on Francis’ face as he opens his mouth to tell another dismal tale. Before he can, James shakes his head at him. He had thought about stories, in the days since. It is something he used to do, turning past events in his mind like a river turns a stone, smoothing the edges, making the events lie just so, find a turn of phrase that pleases him. He smiles at the woman asking the question, turns his head to gauge the rest of his audience, civilians all, looking for a tale of adventure, and launches into a story. Tells a tale from the first real gale of the voyage, as they had sailed across the Atlantic: talks about how they had almost lost a man overboard, speaks of how bravely Lieutenant Le Vesconte had leaped into action. Finds he still quite likes being the center of attention. So, at the next party he brings his listeners to tears of laughter by recounting the attempts of the crew to corral Jacko, the day he had gotten loose on deck, and escaped up into the rigging. He had worried he wouldn’t feel the old thrill if the story wasn’t in service of his own vanity, but he finds it as much a joy to show off his ability with words, and see his listeners agog at the boldness of Lieutenant Little or the daring of Henry Peglar in the foretop, as when the story was about himself.

He feels the telling of these tales is not a sign that his old boastfulness returning, but he knows that Francis disagrees. Each of the tales makes Francis’ lips twist, and something ugly burn in his eyes. It gets worse as time goes on, and James stories begin to repeat. There are, after all, only so many incidents from before the ships were mired in the ice to pull from, and he cannot bring himself to speak of any of the suffering that came after that. 

They return home after one such dinner, where James had watched Francis face grow more and more sour with every story James had told. Perversely, this had only encouraged James to tell more stories. Francis had stewed the whole way home, and as they step into the sitting room of their small house, James says, as levelly as he is able, “If you’ve something to say to me, then say it.”

Francis slams his palm against the wall, “You must know. You tell those stories every damn time…”

“You can hardly wish me to sit in silence, as you do.” James interrupts.

“Silence is better than lying in front of that crowd, making a damn performance out of it” Francis’ bellows at him. 

James starts back, feels himself losing the battle to keep his temper, “Only you could think vanity is required to speak to other people.”

“I’d take some vanity for God’s sake. There’s nothing of you in those stories!” Francis roars. The effort seems to take the fight out of him. He sinks into a chair, rubs a hand over his face. “You know we would not have come back without you, and yet you tell all those tales and erase yourself from them completely.”

James is caught off guard by direction of Francis’ words. He sits in a chair, opposite Francis. Closes his eyes, suddenly very tired. Most often he feels as though he and Francis understand one another completely, but moments like this make him think they do not know one another at all. When he opens his eyes again, Francis is looking at James something shattered and afraid in his eyes.

“Do you not tell your other stories because of me?” Francis asks, “You cannot think I would think less of you if you told a story with yourself in it.”

James, who has thought exactly that, replies, “No of course not.” Gathers his thoughts, “I am   
not erasing myself, Francis. I just don’t feel the need to put myself on display. But if you’d rather I tell a story you’ve heard a thousand times before it can be arranged.” 

A bit of the worry clears from Francis’ face. “I would prefer that, yes.”

***

At an Admiralty dinner later that month, a starry-eyed Lieutenant begs for a story of their Northern adventure. James sees Francis go from unconcealed boredom, to sudden alertness. 

James takes a sip from his wine, smiles at the boy, “It was mostly waiting, I’m afraid. Waiting, and then quite a lot of walking. It made me desperate for a bit of action. Made me miss my time on patrol off the African coast in ’44.” 

He looks away from his audience for a moment to catch Francis’ eye, who looks happy at the direction his story has gone. Even though it has been a long time since he told this story he finds the words on the tip of his tongue, well-worn and honed to maximize the gleam it gives him. For a disorienting moment he hears his own voice as though it is a stranger’s, has the sudden feeling that he is acting like a perfect parody of his younger self. It makes him falter on the thread of the story, for a moment. 

Across the huddle of people around him, Francis has started to look worried. It irks James, the whole point of telling the tale was to put Francis more at ease. And he has the sudden urge to make Francis regret asking him to tell these sorts of stories again. So he picks up the thread of the tale, and starts to expand on a few minor details, sees Francis’ worry shift to confusion. James keeps going, gleefully dragging the tale out longer and longer. Makes it long enough that even the young Lieutenant who’d asked for the tale in the first place loses interest. Francis has a dour look on his face, and James cheerfully hopes he realizes he has brought this on himself, and regrets it. 

But later in the night, as they make their way home, Francis smirks at him and says, “That story’s gotten longer since last I heard it.” And James feels something warm curl in his chest.

It becomes a joke between them, now when James is asked for a story, and Francis is near, he tells an altered version of his old tales. He embellishes them in strange places, or drags them out longer then they should go, or spends an enormous amount of time on an inconsequential detail, or tries to use the ridiculous metaphors he can think of. He prefers to do it when he can see Francis’s face, see if he is keeping his attention, amusing him, with this private joke between the two of them. Likes to see him mock-scowl, or see his eyes focus as he tries to work out where James’ is going to play with the story this time. Best is to make him laugh, and have to cover it in a cough. He always liked the feel of a room’s attention on him, but Francis’ attention is better. 

***

At a dinner party hosted by Sir John Barrow late in the autumn, James finds himself seated across from Francis. Francis had not wanted to attend, had required cajoling from Ross, and reminders from James that if he wants to go to sea again, he can’t entirely become a hermit. Now James is worried he will not be able to convince Francis to attend any such event again. Francis is currently staring into the depths of his soup with the attitude of a man considering the best way to drown himself in it, while the man beside him drones on with London gossip so dull that even James doesn’t find it remotely interesting. As though feeling James’ eyes on him, Francis looks up at James something pleading in his eyes. 

“Let me tell you about the battle of Chinkiang.” James says, loudly enough to draw the attention of the people around him. 

James gestures at the man beside Francis, who has at long last stopped talking, “This happens to be Captain Crozier’s favourite story.” Francis makes an exasperated sound, that James pretends not to hear. 

He begins the tale, he’s told it often enough that he barely has to concentrate on his words, mostly he tries to think of where to change the tale, what would amuse Francis most. 

Hears himself say, “As I climbed the ladder I was thinking of,” makes the mistake of looking at Francis, who mouths “Caesar crossing the Rubicon.” with him.

James grins at him and makes his gestures a bit broader, a bit more elaborate. Tells the story exactly as he used to. He keeps an eye on the rest of his audience, as more people at the table turn to listen to him speak, but mostly he pays attention to Francis. Francis is watching him half amused, half wary, James can see him guessing at what point in the story James is going to digress the tale, add some joke only the two of them will understand. James doesn’t oblige him, just keeps telling the tale exactly as he used to tell it. Comes to the end of the story eventually, out of the corner of his eye sees Francis relax in his seat. Gleefully James spins an extra bit of the tale out.

“That very same bullet tried to kill me, six years later, in the Arctic.” He starts to add onto the story further. The rest of the audience is leaning in now, James suspects they had all been hoping for a tale from the North when they accepted their invitations for the evening. He hadn’t planned to take the story in this direction, he hasn’t really made a story of their long walk before. But he starts to sketch out an edited version, of naval discipline and courage as they set out from the ships, across the ice and onto the shale. To his surprise telling it like this, shorn of the pain, the fear, and the despair, is freeing. He lets himself enjoy the sensation for a moment. It sounds like a grand adventure story: brave, strong men, who faced the cold and the snow and were not afraid. Who were at their best even when events were at their worst. He looks at Francis again, expecting him to be sharing his amusement. 

It wasn’t really like this at all, we both know that. I can turn even this into a story so long it will bore you, because we survived it, you and I he thinks. Francis though is ghostly pale, frozen and still in his seat. 

“And you bled from the wound again!” The woman beside James repeats, apparently delighted by this ghoulish detail. 

Francis drops his cutlery, and starts to his feet, chair scraping loudly across the floor, and stamps out, no pause for decorum, no apology. An awkward silence descends. James struggles to find his words again. 

“Yes, it bled again, but of course we were rescued.” He manages to finish, haltingly. He tries to turn his attention back to his meal, counts the minutes as Francis does not return. 

“Forgive me,” he says at last, rising from his seat, “I think Captain Crozier may be feeling unwell, I should check on him.”

James steps out of the dining room, sees a door out to the terrace, slightly ajar. He pushes it open, goes out into the night. Stands for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. For a moment he thinks he’s wrong, and Francis must still be in the house, but then a glint of gold catches his eye, and he picks out Francis in the gloom. He’s stood in a sheltered corner of the balcony, half hidden from view. He’s lost all his naval bearing, and is slumped forward, hands on the balustrade, staring out into the dark garden below him. James feels a surge of fear that Francis is truly unwell, and hurries to him. Francis startles at his footsteps, springs upright, and spins to him, dashes tears from his cheeks. He looks lost, and afraid. He stares at James like he is an apparition.

James slows his step, comes closer gingerly. He has an apology half formed, but it dies in his throat. There’s something shattered in Francis’ face that James doesn’t know how to read, but he tries anyway, steps in close enough to Francis that he can see every line of his face in the dark.

“Go back to the party James, I’m fine.” Francis’ gestures back towards the house, eyes still bright with tears.

James catches his hand, without meaning too. Picks up the thread of his apology, speaks very quickly “I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have told that story.” 

Francis is staring at their linked hands. “You should tell whatever tale you like, and shouldn’t let an old fool ruin it. You told the story very finely. Like something out of an adventure book.” He pauses, jaw working, “But I can’t…you were bleeding all through your shirt and it would not stop, and you could barely speak, and every movement hurt you, and there was nothing I could do for you, and I just can’t…”

As his voice grinds to a stop, he takes their clutched hands, presses them against James’ chest, where the bullet scar is. 

“You did everything for me.” James replies, as gently as he can, “You got us out. Because of you, I’m safe. I’m safe…”

Francis kisses him, a harsh clack of teeth. James pulls back with shock, see the first spark of fear in Francis’ eyes. James smiles at him. Takes his free hand to cup Francis’ cheek, leans in for another kiss, gentler this time. 

After a long moment, Francis pulls back. He’s smiling now, too. “Let’s get home, before we’re found, and someone asks for another damn story.”

***

As autumn fades into winter James is glad for the warmth of their small home. Glad as well for the warmth of Francis in his bed. He is very happy here, happy in a way he has seldom been in his life. But for all that he feels a longing under his skin, a certain restlessness. He is too seasoned of a sailor not to recognize the pull of the sea. Knows that there are commands he is being considered for. Barrow had pulled him aside days ago, between acts at the opera-house, and sounded him out an interest in an Antarctic voyage. James had laughed heartily, before realizing it wasn’t a joke. Had replied if the Admiralty didn’t want his refusal, they would need to offer him a posting somewhere warmer. Barrow had given him a considering look, before making some vague promises about the bright future James could apparently expect. James knows Admiralty politics well enough to know he likely has a pick of postings, the moment he begins to show interest. He just wishes he had a better sense of where things stand between him and Francis, how long this arrangement of theirs will last.

He’s had liaisons before, of course, but they were fleeting, and both parties knew the affair would end. He knows of course, that this thing with Francis will be the same. But the problem is he doesn’t want it to. Didn’t want it to end when all they were doing was sharing a house. Certainly, doesn’t want it to end now that they are sharing a bed. He doesn’t quite dare to bring it up with Francis though. He’ll take what he can for as long as he can.

He knows Francis shares his yearning in a return to the sea as well. Knows it because of the way he has been spending time with old friends at the Surveying Service. Knows because of the way he speaks of the planned hydrologic surveys in South Pacific, speaks of the technical challenges that will be required, how he would carry it out. He’s speaking of it now, as they lie in bed, the weak afternoon sun leaking under the drawn curtains. 

Francis traces an idle line back and forth along James’ collarbone as he says, sounding half considering, and half covetous: “Two ships, strictly a scientific endeavour. It’ll require some careful sailing, and the work will be finicky.”

“Only you could make that sound like a benefit.” James grins, “They should ask you to lead it. It’s important work and it would suit you.”

Francis raises his head, squints at him, “It’s boring you mean.”

“Dull. Tedious. Humdrum.” James agrees, still grinning. Kisses him once for each word. 

Francis has a scowl on his face, but his eyes are bright and happy. “You’re cruel. How I put up with you is beyond me.”

James laughs, feeling very happy, “Well you needn’t, if having something interesting in your life is such a burden in your pursuit of a dreary existence.”

He leans in, to kiss Francis again, but Francis stops him with two fingers across his lips. His face is very serious. 

“James,” He says, slowly, as though picking his words with care. “You may always assume I am happy to have you near, if you want to be rid of me, you’re the one who’ll have to say the word.” 

James deals with the rush of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him by linking his hand with Francis’, and kissing him again.

***

Francis watches James fuss at the mirror that hangs in their sitting room. Francis can’t help but admire him, despite the roil of emotions in his gut. The morbid part of him tells him to enjoy the sight while it’s still his to look at. Francis slumps deeper into his chair, stares at the opened letter on the table in front of him, at the heavy Admiralty seal. The letter containing Francis’ commission as First for a new scientific survey voyage in the South Pacific. Looks across the sitting room, to watch James again. He is arranging his hair carefully, fixing the line of his dress uniform, making sure his epaulettes sit just so. They’ll have to leave for the concert soon, but Francis has no stomach for it. He feels the upcoming separation the orders signify very deeply.

It would be easier to bear he thinks, if James seemed at all affected by it. But he has been nothing of the sort. Had said, when Francis had read him the orders, “Somewhere warm, that’s a relief. It’s perfect, they couldn’t have picked a better man for it.” And Francis could detect no hint of anything except honest pleasure in him.

He had been cheerfully pragmatic, too, while they dressed. Discussed the details of the voyage, undeterred by Francis monosyllabic answers. Had weighed the pros and cons of the two vessels, while he worked the buttons of his jacket closed. And now, as he eyes himself in the mirror, he is speaking approvingly of the free-reign Francis has been given to choose his second and other officers for the voyage. 

This will be the end this thing between them of course, it was always a something fleeting, and Francis had long suspected he was clinging too hard, because it made him happy. He had thought there was some feeling there for James as well, but perhaps he thinks morosely, he was mistaken. It was not of course, that he was expecting a great show of emotion, but he thought there would be at least a hint of sadness from James, that he would at least look, a little, like there was something to mourn. 

Francis rouses himself a bit, he always knew that their time together was limited; that James would move on, once he was recovered, once he was well. And he is well now, or as well as he will be. Certainly, well enough that rumours are circulating about what posting he will have next. Francis has heard from James Ross that several informal offerings had already been made, all postings of great importance, and glory. So far, apparently, they had been politely turned down. But Francis knows that state of affairs cannot hold, knows that James longs for occupation and usefulness as much as Francis himself does. 

Francis hates that he cannot view his orders with the joy they should elicit. He hasn’t the latitude with the Admiralty that James has, and yet this commission is exactly what he would have chosen for himself. Good, necessary work, that requires care, attention and skill. But nothing showy, which means he will not have to politick to try to get what he wants, nor accept people on his crew because of who they know. Instead he will be able to put together the best crew he can, and do the work cleanly and well. Be able to come home safely without much a-do, save for the people with enough understanding to appreciate a job neatly done. It is only because of James that he is not rejoicing. So he forces himself to attend to what James is saying, about the relative merits of the current stock of shore-bound lieutenants, and to discuss the matter with him. 

After a while Francis hesitates and adds, “I have to make a choice of a second as well.” 

James meets Francis’ eyes in the mirror. Francis realizes with a shock that he is hiding a smile, “Yes my dear, whoever shall you choose?” James asks sarcastically.

Francis stares at him, shocked, “You can’t possibly mean yourself.” 

James loses his stern façade, grins openly: “Who else? I have no plans to stay on land indefinitely, I don’t think I could ask for a better opportunity.”

“You could any one of a dozen better opportunities if you reached out your hand for them” Francis replies shortly.

James turns away from the mirror, faces Francis, “Something better? I doubt it. This one seems to have everything I could wish for: no chance of ice, the sea and you. What else would I ask for?”

Francis gestures sharply, frustrated, “Don’t you understand, James? We’ll be improving some hydrographic charts, nothing more. There’ll be no glory in it, no fine stories.”

James cocks his head, stares at Francis for a moment that seems to draw out very long. The room is small, and two steps take him to Francis’ chair, where he sits himself gracefully on the arm of the chair. 

“No stories? But think of it,” he gestures broadly with one hand as though conjuring some far away landscape, “Think of all those tiny islands covered in bird-shit we would find.” Leans conspiratorially towards Francis, as though telling him a great secret, smiling openly now. “All the gilded glory a man could wish. Where else could I possibly wish to be?” 

Francis stares at him, then gives an answering smile. Reaches for his hand. Leans up and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Sea Fever" by John Masefield


End file.
